piece of pistachio cookie that I didn't realize was pistachio til after
piece of pistachio cookie that I didn't realize was pistachio til after
My father and I participated in a little poem-off via email recently. It was over 30 degrees outside and I was feeling incredibly giddy, so I took to the keyboard to express my glee, and he quickly responded.
My mom declared me the winner of our first go round, which yielded a strong comeback from my dad. The back-and-forth is below. I've left his spelling and grammar as is, of course.
Lyrical combat. March madness. Leaving our gloves behind upon exiting the house. It's all turning around, guys. It's all getting good.
Temps are rising
Snow is melting
Cig butts, dog poop everywhere
I don't care!
Folks are spry
Spring is nigh.
Spring is here
Why aren't the birdies
Spring is here
And the doggies are purring
Of if u only loved me
We go go. Go go
Tiptoeing to Palermo.
my dad's comeback upon LOSING:
The poetry is judged
But we know it 's a crime
Cause mom favors Cara
All the time
Dad is the best
But mom won 't admit it
And so CarA is judged best
As Dad sheds tears
Into his vest
Such is the fate
As it alwAys has been
Of poets great
When judged by
my comeback to that:
The fight is fought
I'm the best
Dad is not.
he responded that he "hated it," and returned with:
Oh wicked Gods
Who cast me down
Upon the rocks
My guts spilt out
No more to roam
No more be free
My role as Seer
NoMore Is Mine
For Cara judged the best of
By Momma Girl
The Queen of Lies
About a month ago we all got the flu. Except for Gabriel, and the baby and Nora had really mild versions, thank god.
But J and I got hit hard. He came home from work one day complaining about body aches and fever, and I was like, "Ok, you probably have a mild to moderate cold and are being a little dramatic..." Then, BAM, the next day I realized, "My thighs hurt. Why do my thighs hurt? Was I doing squats that I don't remember?" Half an hour later I was on the couch under a wool blanket with my husband, and the chills. Pain everywhere.
We were each sick for about four days. We'd all gotten the flu shot, and while it didn't keep us from getting the dreaded disease, maybe it shortened the stint.
It was pretty awful without being downright terrible because we allowed ourselves to sit around and watch television all day. We also had to keep our children alive, but television all day is great no matter what.
What was worse, at least for me, was the aftermath. Once I felt mostly better, we had a mountain of laundry and a million other things to do. And while I was decidedly over the worst of it, my energy level had taken a nosedive. I felt like I couldn't get it back.
I spent the beginning of Adriana's life telling people that going from two to three children was much easier than going to one to two, and I meant it. I was tired and scatterbrained but also amazed at how well this adorable little infant fit into our already established schedule.
But once the winter hit it got tougher. The children - and dogs - were inside nearly all the time and our cozy home sometimes seemed like a cozy prison.
The kids have been taking swimming classes at the Y on Thursday afternoons and the therapy pool area, where classes are held, sauna-like in its warmth, has been a sweet refuge from the icy cold. The other day Nora asked if we could live there. This unforgiving season has been particularly unforgiving here in recent years.
Anyway, tough. But manageable. Until I got the flu, and all of a sudden it wasn't. I cried for the first time in so long, telling J that I had no idea what was wrong, except that getting sick had done me in. How was I ever going to get our family back into a schedule? There were so many snow days! And what the hell was happening with my career? To cope, I ate a lot of sugary things, which was not a good coping method. I felt like hair always looked weird.
When I was little and my family would return from vacation, we'd all have that odd feeling of being sad a fun trip was over but excited to be back home and just not sure how to adjust. My mom would say we were having "re-entry" problems. It was a useful way to describe a transient, mild sense of depression ignited by a sudden change in affairs.
I feel like the term applies in a lot of instances where life deals you a sudden shift, including this recent bout of illness. I do realize we are lucky to even have "re-entry" problems; that things have been great, or we've been on a wonderful trip...and then an illness hits or we come back home and it's hard to motivate.
To me, being unmotivated is one of the worst feelings. I imagine that that feeling, for an extended time, is what being truly depressed is like.
Extremely unmotivated is exactly how I felt after getting the flu. Feeling that bad seemed exponentially out of whack with the actual event, which shouldn't have been that big of a deal. But I understand how it happened: my body took a hit, and then I felt like I couldn't get my energy level back to normal, and then I felt like I couldn't take care of my family and then I didn't want to do anything at all, like especially load and unload the dishwasher. Again.
And I definitely didn't want to scale the snow piles and brace myself against the frigid temps to put my kids in the car, even to escape to tropical paradise at the Y.
Happily, this feeling has been lifting lately. I know part of it is simple healing. Maybe it shouldn't take like a month and a half to get over being sick, but sometimes when you're a mother and already run down, it does. Another part of it has been changing my surroundings a little, like buying bright flowers for the house and instead of listening to podcasts about, for instance, the heroin problem in middle America when I'm driving to pick up Gabriel from school, listening to upbeat music.
Then, after a couple weeks of cursing the state of Connecticut and it's weather patterns, I started to get excited about things again. I decided that prolonging the misery was not the best bet. J and the kids went for a long trek in the snowshoes they got for Christmas and I thought that perhaps the winter wasn't only hellish, just mostly.
We started researching new cars, having decided that this three-across-the-back-of-the-Outback was a neat experiment and is now over. Tomorrow we are going to look at a minivan. Maybe Sunday we'll go swimming. Next week my parents are coming to visit. Maybe we'll get them together with all the local family and have pizza. And one night they'll babysit and J and I will go out and drink an amazing bottle of wine.
So we march on. Now that I'm older I realize that sometimes it feels better to own a situation than to try and extrapolate the wisdom from it. Just admit things, and advance.
January and February have been rough. The flu floored me. I'm now the kind of person who wants a minivan.
These are the truths of the winter of 2015. I feel strong and giddy admitting them out loud, as they sparkle and glimmer against the dirty snow.
One day last summer when while up in Maine, we noticed our small dog Mina making a coughing sound.
Nothing Mina does is that shocking to J and I, despite the fact that it might be shocking to other people. Mina's burying a breadstick in the hamper? Fine. Eating the remains of a vodka-soaked watermelon that was left out at the pool after last night's festivities? She'll survive. Trying to murder a two-year-old with what's left of her tiny, ragged teeth? Normal.
But this cough. It went on and on. It sounded like what I imagine a dying goose would sound like. A raspy, continuous honk, and when my my annoyance finally gave way to worry, I decided we'd call the friendly veterinarians up in Boothbay. They told us they'd see us right away.
An x-ray revealed that Mina was in congestive heart failure; it's one of those conditions that, in people and animals alike, sounds incredibly scary, but is actually manageable. Mina's had heart issues for years, none of them dire, so this wasn't incredibly surprising. The doctor prescribed a twice-daily dose of Lasix and told us to schedule a visit with our vet once we were home to evaluate how she was doing.
Mina's 13 - not young, but she's a small dog and their lifespans are longer - and would be fine for years, they explained, if the medicine worked well.
Lasix is a diuretic. My general, non-medical understanding of the drug is that it helps remove fluid from the system, which is good when you have congestive heart failure and are retaining water. A natural side effect is that you have to pee approximately 7,000 times a day. This is the drug that we were now giving our dog.
I'm gonna tell you a little story about Mina, and J is not going to like it, but it's a story that deserves to be told.
Several months ago J was taking a shower. Those of you who know him know that my husband has bad eyesight. As in, when he wakes up in the morning, before he puts his glasses on, he has to hold the clock less than an inch from his face to see the numbers on it (my sight is better, but not much, and our children are doomed).
Anyway, he's in the shower, enjoying his normal, semi-blind shower routine, when he notices something on the shower floor. He thinks it's one of the kids' bath toys, or maybe a bar of soap, so he picks it up and holds it close to his face like the alarm clock, a mere millimeter from his eyes to facilitate sight recognition.
It was a dog poop. Mina had pooped in the bathtub, which was, by the way, not that surprising, because this dog, she has her moments. I mean, this was not one of her more delightful ones, but let's just say she's not a boring dog.
This is the kind of lifestyle we were dealing with before the Lasix. This is the animal we were now giving a drug, that was also going to, yes, save her life, but also up the ante in terms of her bathroom habits.
I imagine if you were heard your normal, loyal dog making death cough noises and had to put it on a diuretic you'd feel sorry for it. Not so with Mina. I knew she'd be fine and live forever, and that we were the ones in trouble. Because if there's one thing you want when you are about to give birth to your third child, it's a dog that urinates to no end. A dog that has:
and now was being given the impetus - and license - to desecrate our household. Our other dog, Cecilia? If she was on Lasix, she'd sit patiently by the door if she felt the urge, each and every time, waiting for someone to let her out. She'd die before she had an accident. That's what nice dogs do.
Mina's what I'd call a legendary dog. I adore her, but "nice" isn't the word that comes to mind. And so, despite our best efforts to get her outside countless times a day, she started peeing in our house on occasion.
This wasn't good for obvious reasons, but also because it turned our home into a carnival of paranoia. J took to dropping his 6'4" frame to the floor any time he felt even a modest dampness on the rug, which, let's face it, happens when you've got a family of five tramping in and out of the house all day.
I'd try to explain. "I think that might be from the kids' shoes? Because it's rainy today?" But he wouldn't listen, on all fours swaying his head from side to side like a metal detector. "I know it's Mina. I know it. It's everywhere!"
Let's be clear. She wasn't peeing everywhere. I meant it when I said she was doing it "on occasion," but still. I tried hard to come up with solutions and schedules but the truth is that her diagnosis coincided with the addition of a new family member, and it's hard to watch three young children while ensuring your already mischievous and now medicated dog - who, frankly, would much rather never go outside anyway in winter months - is emptying her bladder sufficiently.
It's also worth mentioning that while the medicine helps her, and we are very thankful for that, the cough hasn't disappeared. It's not constant or scary like it was initially, but it's there, often when I'm nursing the baby to sleep in the evening. Mina will nudge her nose into the cracked door, swing it open and enter the dark room with the "clackety clackety clackty" of her toenails on the hardwood, wheezing loudly and wagging her tail, while she looks at me, happily, like, "How about now? Is now a good time to hang out?"
The combination of it all breeds this constant level of distrust and I recently told J we had to get a grip (especially him, let's be honest). The most common refrain in our household has become, "Mina! What are you doing?!" When the kids are all asleep and we notice her slinking up the stairs to their quiet and unattended bedrooms. When she's circling the rug. When she's walking around, without purpose.
I tried looking up solutions to the dog-on-Lasix situation online, and found only heartfelt narratives regarding a beloved pet's heart deterioration. This wasn't the help I needed.
I read a few explanations of congestive heart failure and related issues that came with plenty of reassurance that even though the medicine made your dog urinate excessively, at least its quality of life would be extended over many years.
I read that to J. He replied, "What about us? What about our quality of life?"
Over the past few months we've made a concerted effort to deal with this new adventure, and like all of life's challenges, it is slowly but surely improving.
J (who has adopted a new calm in recent weeks, I don't know, maybe it's this book on meditation he's reading) brought home some puppy pads which I was totally opposed to at first but then conceded might be helpful on unusually busy days. He also replaced our bathmat - Mina's favorite spot for relieving herself - with a cedar mat that smells like a spa and is hard and uninviting for her bathroom dalliances.
Of course, I let the dogs out any chance I get and am trying to get better about long, regular walks. Mina stays in a crate when we're out of the house and while she's sleeping at night, and seems to like it, happily entering when I ask.
Last night, though, I went into our guest room, which has just been transformed into Adriana's room with the addition of a crib, and I noticed a lump moving around under the comforter on the bed. Mina, having heard me enter, stuck her little head out from underneath. "What are you doing?" I said, automatically, as though she'd answer.
Then I sat down next to her and stroked her silky, soft ears. I haven't done that in forever and I thought about how you always read studies that petting an animal helps lower blood pressure. She needed to go in her crate, but the room, in its new incarnation as nursery, was so peaceful and warm. Mina may be a troublemaker, but she's no idiot. She'd chosen the least turbulent spot in the house and gotten down to business unmaking the bed and turning it the perfect lounge for an aging Pomeranian/Miniature Pinscher mix.
I looked at her, and at my quietly sleeping baby in the crib. One just beginning life and one beginning life's last stretch. One with an actual diaper one. Another who could really use a diaper.
I left her to enjoy her cozy nest, until J found her anyway, there was no way in hell he was going to leave her free to roam the house all night.
At the door I whispered, "Behave yourself. Don't wake up the baby." Again, as though she understood. But you know what? This is Mina we're talking about. A legendary dog, who is still making waves. And I think that maybe she did.
You guys remember last winter and how much I enjoyed it?
After that abysmal trek through Connecticut's most notable season, I decided that there was no way it could happen again. That next year, I wouldn't sit inside getting all angsty about our five foot walk to the car three hours before it was scheduled to happen. That I would, somehow, enjoy winter.
And we're already here. While it's technically still fall, todays highs aren't projected to go any higher than 34 degrees. When I took the sleeping baby out of the car this morning, the frigid winds touched her face, she woke up with a start and I thought, "OH MY GOD it's happening aga--" before I stopped myself and remembered last year's pledge. "Don't do it," I thought. Don't go down that road. Certainly not before Thanksgiving, anyway. We've got plenty of weeks ahead. Let's start out on a moderately good note.
So, today, I'm writing about the things I like; things that distract me from the descent of winter, and activities to fill even the harshest days.
Serial. If you aren't listening to this addictive podcast (narrated by Sarah Koenig, of "This American Life"), I'm not really so sure we should be talking. Mostly because if we do talk, all I will talk about is the podcast, which investigates the 1999 murder of a high school girl in Baltimore. Did the jury wrongly convict the guy who is currently serving a life sentence for killing her? Well, did they?!?
Taylor Swift, "Shake It Off." Obviously.
The YMCA. Awhile back I toured a local Y branch - a new building with gorgeous facilities - and decided that at some point we'd join. I made good on that decision last week so that the kids can take swimming lessons and we can spend unplanned weekend days this winter in the pool. Nora and I visited Saturday during open swim hours and spent some time splashing around and chatting, mostly about how she thinks we need a dedicated YMCA bag where we'll keep our towels and suits and whatnot. She plans to decorate it herself with a "Y" and a heart. These are the delightful discussions I have with my six-year-old. I'm excited for more swimming dates.
The NPR "All Songs Considered" radio station on Apple TV. Because this is available via the simple "radio" option on our Apple TV (not the newer iTunes radio) this station plays what it plays without me having to vote songs up or down or provide any other input, which appeals to my sense of real fear regarding the ways people listen to music nowadays and how I'm never going to catch up. I had this on in the background last night and liked nearly everything I heard.
A cappuccino and something sweet. To thine own self be true and everything, and my own self is really enjoying this on an almost daily basis. So be it.
At some point during the early days of our relationship, I'm pretty sure I made a gleefully carefree statement to your father about "having a million children" with him. I think many young women do in the throes of early love (and perhaps after a few cocktails). I was in my twenties and everything was so easy. The future was bright, and complication-free.
Of course, as the years wore on, we grew up and our goals became more realistic. Not "a million" children, but we'd certainly have kids. Our life plan was never formalized, however, a trademark of our lifestyle I've come to truly appreciate. As a couple, we've never put deadlines on major life decisions. On minor items? Sure. Your dad especially is good at employing innovative productivity measures to ensure we RSVP to a wedding or declutter a drawer by a certain date.
But as far as the bigger picture, our style is more geared towards taking things as they come.
This can be frustrating sometimes, even when the situation is beyond our control. We've been in a state of limbo for a few years now as we contemplate the eventual end of your father's post at Yale, and wonder where he'll work next, wonder about my own career prospects and weigh the pros and cons of being open to relocating anywhere geographically, verses ensuring we live near family.
We're in our mid-thirties and I do like the question mark that accompanies our current life. It means we've got a lot to look forward to, and that keeps everything exciting.
But we're also ready to move on. I feel like it was all we thought about for a good long while.
For most of the past year, however, you've been a beautiful distraction.
I always imagined we'd have a third child. It's a strange decision. Everyone understands when you have one, and when you have your second, too, giving the first a little sibling.
When it comes to three, though, the reasoning gets tricky. You've got to be sure you're not doing it because you miss those snuggly newborn days, or because you're bored and want to make life a little more challenging. You've got to think about the future. Is this what you want your family to look like? Busy Thanksgiving dinners and family vacations. It's difficult to do when you're entwined in the trappings of early childhood, or at least it was for me.
Your father though - one of three himself - was good at envisioning the road ahead, and once we realized we both wanted to do this, it seemed silly to wait until we were settled in the next stage of life to have another child. Because who knew when that would be? Plus, as every parent knows, having a baby unsettles everything.
Then, suddenly - because suddenly seems to be the only way we know how to do this - I found myself tearfully telling your father in the parking lot outside his lab that I was pregnant. "How in the world could this happen so FAST?" It was like we'd barely made the decision before the decision was made for us. Your father told me we were "good at" reproducing. He seemed proud, which made me laugh, before I cried a little again.
Like I said, we take things as they come. So I calmed down, and soon my disbelief turned to gratefulness. We're very lucky.
I showed quickly the third time around, my body - "Oh, this again?" - familiar with the task at hand. I wore loose clothing so we could keep it a secret until the first trimester passed, wary of letting the kids know until we were on firm ground, and unwilling to tell certain family members (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE) who'd been quick to spill the secret with the first two.
Then we started sharing the news. "We're crazy," we said, "we're having another!" Family members were overjoyed and friends wished us luck. We made a big deal out of telling your older sister and brother one morning, which turned out to be an amusing non-event. They didn't really care about the initial announcement. I think they were hungry.
But as the weeks passed and I got bigger, their excitement grew. After books at bedtime, they sang to you, adorable duets, often "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." They'd occasionally yell at each other during the performance - someone had started too early or got the words wrong - and I figured it was good you got used to their dynamic early.
Your father and I got excited, too. Knowing with full certainty the third time around how little you'd need in your first few months - and also not having much space to give in the home we'd soon be outgrowing - we focused not on baby preparations but on house and yard improvements we'd been neglecting and other domestic projects that had been put off.
Your dad turned our guest room-slash-office into a "relaxing room" complete with gossip magazines and serene lighting, and ordered me to go there to get away from the kids every now and then. I was doing hard work just being pregnant, and should rest, he said.
It was a good thing he did because you took your time and I needed the extra energy. Not as bad as your brother, who was nine days overdue, you were just six, but still, six. While I can't say I was pleasant during that extra almost-week of pregnancy, I did have some memorably happy moments with your older siblings, realizing these were our last days together as a compact family of four.
I've told people that your labor and birth was "easy," but quickly edit that statement to explain that it was "easy compared to the other two."
Contractions began at home and we shuttled your brother and sister off to their grandparents' (they were slightly more excited about going there than they were about your imminent arrival, a fact I will enjoy sharing with them when they are older). A few hours into the process my water broke as I was heading up to the bathroom, prompting me to sit down quickly mid-stairway and announce, "Ohmygod I think my water just broke, OR I wet my pants! But I think my water broke! I don't KNOW, I don't know my body right now!"
Your father adopted a calm voice. "I think your water probably broke, ok? Let's go to the hospital."
Again, it was "easy compared to the other two." Once escorted to a delivery room, contractions got more intense, closer together. When I asked for an epidural, there was an hour or so that passed before the anesthesiologist arrived, got everything ready and I actually got one. During that hour felt like I was going to pass out, and tried to welcome your father's offerings of a cool towel on my neck, while simultaneously contemplating a violent rebuke of his advances.
You know, easy. In the grand scheme of things.
Once pain relief was in full effect, it was almost time to push. The labor lasted eight hours; not the quickest of deliveries, but quicker than last time, and much quicker than the time before that.
My body did what it was supposed to this time and so did you. When the doctor conducted his last check he announced that I was fully dilated and you were "right there." Your brother and sister, please note, were not at all "right there" when they should have been, and I'll be forever singing your praises as the easiest arrival of my three.
Then it happened fast. The room wasn't prepared! Push! Now don't push! Push again! Just fifteen minutes or so and the doctor ordered, "Grab the baby!" and I pulled you up onto my chest and shouted "Hi!" I loved the medical staff. I loved your father. I loved you. We were all laughing.
For a moment we forgot one important factor. My doctor lifted you off my chest and pronounced, "A girl!" I knew it all along.
The first night in the hospital was marked by a quiet and calm usually absent from our lives. We held you close, waiting until morning - and annoying everyone in the process - to decide on your name. Adriana, to honor our Italian heritage. Plus, think of the nicknames.
Life got crazier from there. Visitors the next day, then home to our family of five - five! - plus two dogs, whose presence sometimes seems to tip our household capacity over the threshold. Your father took a full week off work, taking care of your siblings while I spent time taking care of you. Despite there being more children, this was the easiest week of parenting I've ever experienced.
The school year began and our honeymoon period was over. We needed to get into a groove - making lunches and laying out clothes and leaving on time in the morning - which is hard to do with a newborn. The situation wasn't nearly as difficult as I'd predicted, however. You eased your way into our schedule and habits and a new lifestyle emerged.
That doesn't mean we aren't getting used to it all. We can no longer distract ourselves with preparations related to your arrival, and have begun thinking about the future again, a necessary but often daunting activity, made more difficult by sleeplessness and the challenges that accompany having children, like catching colds and doing homework.
But, as it's always been, your father and I are good at looking forward to the smaller events along the way: an upcoming road trip, a cousin's wedding, a bustling Thanksgiving with family and friends.
As for the future, it'll come, and I have no doubt it will be great. He may not be sure about it all at this particular juncture, but your father's always had this optimistic certainty about life. When I met him, circumstances weren't ideal for our potential relationship. "It's ok," he said. "I'll wait."
It's the most comforting quality in the world, and while it may disappear occasionally, it always resurfaces. Common stress is no match.
In our most energetic moments, your father and I have endless plans, realistic and not, but always inspiring. We could move to Florida and it would always be warm! We could build a modern house with environmentally friendly features! We could land our dream careers! We could have a million children!
In reality, just three. exactly as we planned, even though we didn't always know how that would play out. Having you has opened life up in an exhilarating way. We did it. What's next?
Getting together with your dad was the same for me. I found him, and everything else was easier because of that.
Over the past few weeks I've been treasuring nearly every moment of your existence, knowing how quickly this newborn stage will pass.
Every once in awhile, though, I find myself awake and overtired in the middle of the night with you, fretting that I won't have the strength to perform the most minor of items the next day, as I think mothers often do
It lasts barely a minute, however, before I have the obvious realization that your father's there, too, just a foot away. Asleep. Snoring maybe, but we are in this together, and everything is more than alright. We've been uncertain but enthusiastic, content but waiting for what's to come, just like we were waiting for you. We are still all of those things, but you're finally here.
And now, we are complete.
Remarkably, having a third child isn't as hard as I thought it would be. I was envisioning utter chaos around here - constant wailing and productivity of any sort grinding to a complete halt - but it hasn't been like that. At least not yet. There is still the potential, guys.
For now though, our life has been slightly crazier than having two children. That's pretty much all.
Going from non-parenthood to having Nora was one of the biggest shocks of my life. The jump to two children was notable for its seemingly illogical increase in physical work; we'd doubled the number of kids but it felt like an exponential difference.
Two to three, so far: not that big a deal. The difficult times of day are still difficult. The issues are still the same. It's just that now I sometimes have to hold a baby while we're working it out.
That doesn't mean being a mother to a newborn again isn't challenging. While taking care of Adriana is pure enjoyment - there's a true sense of relaxation in knowing the ropes - I'm still dealing with the physical and mental weirdness associated with that first month or two postpartum. Tired, loopy. Drained from caring for children and constant breastfeeding. My body isn't quite my own.
I feel particularly wiped out in the evening, naturally, and sometimes worry I won't be able to make it through the period from evening til the next morning's coffee. Nothing dismal. Just a quiet refusal. No more parenting. No talking to anybody. Nothing possible but coma-like sleep. Please. Just the sleep.
Then - wait a second - you know what? Turns out I'm just hungry. I eat something, anything, and am bolstered by an immediate rush of energy. I am able to get our newborn fed and down for the night. I am able to contemplate life beyond this strange version of life.
All of this is tempered, however, by my third-time-around knowledge that this will pass in the blink of an eye. So when people ask me how it's going, I answer, honestly, that it's wonderful. I am sleepy and forgetful, and our darling Gabriel is having a bit of a rough time adjusting to his new position as middle child (a subject that deserves its own blog post) but, OH MY GOD, that BABY. I could not love her more. All the difficulties I had the first time around - finding time to eat and shower, for instance - now seem fleeting and inconsequential.
Still, as mentioned, by the end of each day I'm exhausted. And the difference between collapsing in defeat and collapsing while remaining optimistic about days ahead often has to do with small details in the way I spend my day. It's easy to self-sabotage when you're already a little off. By eating cookies for dinner, let's say, which seems like an excellent idea when all I can think about is ingesting as many calories as I can, as quickly as possible.
Luckily, it's also easy to take a little better care of yourself, and doing so seems to be the key to doing well.
Parenting materials talk a lot about staying hydrated, resting when your baby rests, and having plenty of lean protein and vegetables. If you can do it, wonderful. But I find that even a semblance of conscientiousness goes a long way. Just a little common sense.
During a late afternoon walk with the baby and my dogs this weekend, those moments of inevitable concern I feel at day's end - knowing that bedtime is close, but not quite close enough - started to recede. The sun and moderate amount of exercise worked wonders.
I thought, "Hey, I should do this more often!" And that realization was followed by others, like that I shouldn't wait until I'm experiencing extreme thirst to drink a glass of water, that watching good television is a perfectly good way to relax and that a five-minute nap is worth a million times more than scanning social media outlets when there is a rare period of downtime.
I'm not going to get it right every day - no parent is - but trying goes a long way. Then, before I know it, I'm going to be feeling more myself. The baby will be able to entertain herself with toys for a bit every now and then and this period of life will be a hazy memory. In newfound moments of quiet self-reflection, I'm sure that at least for a moment or two, I'll miss it.
"Remember when the baby used to be in mommy's tummy? And mommy's tummy was big? And we used to sing to it?"
"She's not in there anymore. Now mommy's tummy is little again. Flat as a pancake."
"It's still big."
"Nora! It's not big!"
"Well. It's not flat as a pancake."
Adriana Grace McDonough. Born August 23, 2014 at 5:16 PM, 7 lbs, 11 oz, 21 and 3/4 inches.
She's our third, so obviously I'm just posting this now.
She is also tiny, soft and cuddly, and no one in our family can get enough of her.
Welcome come to the world, bambina.
One of the things my children are really good at lately is trashing the house in a matter of minutes. It's not that they're crazy kids and, actually, the process is often pretty imaginative. They're "building a house," or "doing a show" or "making a school."
The materials used are always rather diverse, though, meaning an interesting outcome for them, and the onset of stress for me. Throw pillows from the couch. Magazines. A blanket pulled off a bed upstairs. My driver's license, somehow. They make the kind of mess you can't simply sweep back into the appropriate bin or basket, because its' origins are house-wide. And, unlike the creation of such bold structures, the tidying up part takes forever.
I know I should make them clean it up themselves, and I do try but the truth is that J or I can take care of it literally 4,000 times faster than the two of them combined, so it's often a group effort.
I don't like it. So earlier this summer I was all, "Ok. We're not going to spend any more time indoors, ever." A noble plan but, obviously, unrealistic.
I have, however, done a pretty good job of getting the kids out of the house as much as possible. Nora's been at a few camps and outside plenty during the day, but I'm often with both kids in the late afternoon, trying to fill those couple hours before J gets home and dinner.
One of our favorite nearby places to go is Lighthouse Point Park. It's a gem for kids and parents alike since there's the beach, a playground and splash pad. It's so close to our house that we often head there on impulse, packing just a couple things.
It's a great activity for me, especially being pregnant, because I can pretty much relax on a bench while the kids do whatever they want.
Like jump off this stone statue. We can't decide if he's a dolphin or a seal.
They did this for nearly half an hour while I sat with my feet in the warm sand nearby, not once anticipating cleaning up the living room before bedtime that night, letting the bright sun sink into my shoulders, still rejoicing in the fact that there is, remarkably, warmth again after that long, frigid winter.
One of the interesting things about having another baby is comparing three, district pregnancy experiences. With Nora, my ankles were swollen and my ice cream cravings were fearsome events. Memories of being pregnant with Gabriel have sort of fallen through the cracks, but I do know that I continued attending rigorous exercise classes throughout and couldn't stop thinking about drinking delicious craft beers.
This baby, perhaps in preparation for what its actual life will be like, isn't getting much special consideration pre-birth, and, truthfully, that's made the pregnancy a positive experience in a lot of ways. I've been enjoying food, not worrying as much about what I should or should not be eating. I've been wearing the maternity clothes I like best, and that are the most comfortable.
I haven't really been thinking about the pregnancy as much in general, at least I didn't in the first seven or eight months (now it's pretty hard to ignore my sheer size and associated fatigue), and certainly haven't worried as much as I did when pregnant with the first two.
I wouldn't say I "forgot" about being pregnant altogether - I mean, come on - but there were plenty of days it fell to the back of my mind, and I didn't dwell on the physical feelings I was having the way I did in the past, especially when I was pregnant with Nora and could devote full afternoons to rhapsodizing on the threat and reality of constipation.
There just hasn't been time. In the same vein, I've gained much less weight with this baby. That's certainly due, in part, to dealing with my already existing children.
I've always hated this reasoning when celebrities use it in magazine interviews: "I'm keeping in shape running after my kids!" Oh, PLEASE. But finally, the third time around, it's true. Despite my penchant for baked goods to start the day, and still obsessed with ice cream, I don't have the energy to indulge quite as much; when confronted with the choice between sweets and lying down, I often choose the latter. Ok, like 50 percent of the time I choose the latter. Which I guess made a difference.
So, I've been staying active, not always by choice. I did, however, start this third pregnancy off strong in the exercise department, still attending classes and even doing a few exercise videos at home. I lifted weights. I kept running, until I got a few weeks into the second trimester and felt - no less than three steps into each run - that I had to pee IMMEDIATELY, no matter that I'd gone less than one minute prior, and also, that my uterus might crash through my pelvic floor. Unpleasant feelings, so I ditched the running in favor of more lying down.
And eventually, I ditched the rest. My days were too busy and I simply didn't feel like it. I had minimal guilt about this. See? Third pregnancies can be nice.
What I kept up with was long walks, away from our house towards the beach at Lighthouse Point, sometimes looping through the park and along the sand by the Long Island Sound, then home again. Two to two-and-half miles at a brisk pace while listening to loud music through my headphones.
I walked when I was pregnant with Nora, too, I remember, but it was always a more leisurely affair. My free hours were far more plentiful then, while expecting my first child. Leaving your house and responsibilities behind in a burst of gleeful energy is something you get very good at once the children actually arrive.
When I wrote "exercise regularly" as a summer goal, I'd been thinking about this departure from more intense endeavors and wondering if I could get back there, but in the weeks since my attitude has been more along the lines of, "Why bother?"
I kept up with the walks, though. I wish I was heading out every other day or so, but the reality is that I've probably averaged one good walk a week in the past few months.
Accepting "the reality," is what this pregnancy has been about, is the thing. Coming to grips with the fact that I am very tired around 4 p.m. and a short nap on the couch, while the children play and (hopefully) don't kill themselves is a much better idea than tackling whatever duty I'd meant to complete that afternoon.
Releasing myself from any guilt established eating quite a lot of M&Ms, after which I feel the need to ask J if that act could have possibly given the baby diabetes in the womb (and he responsibly replies, "Oh my God. No.")
Looking forward to quiet hours with a new baby once he or she finally arrives. Letting family and babysitters help. Not working, or thinking about work, considering opportunities or worrying about the lack thereof, until I'm ready.
The summer goal of exercising regularly? In my more aggressive past, no, I'm not sure I'd consider my actions to date a success.
But this summer is different. This summer, it's a yes.
It was here.
And it was wonderful.
This morning I had to take our dog, Mina, to the vet for a rabies shot, and since we are in the heady grasp of summer vacation, needed to take the children with me.
It was one of those things that sounded like it would be super easy, you know? Get the kids and dog in the car, scoot the mere couple miles down to the vet for a quick visit and come home. I didn't even bother asking if anyone could watch them, it would be so fast.
The kids were excited about it even. They liked the prospect of seeing Mina get a shot. Because they are a little bit evil.
But about ten minutes before we were scheduled to be there, Gabriel informed me that he had to go to the potty, then took my hand and led me to the bathroom where he proceeded to not only go, but engage me in a play-by-play of the process, spoken in proud whispers while pointing, ensuring that it took 20-30 times longer than necessary. I stood there as my baby weight seemed to increase exponentially. If we didn't have somewhere to go, I may have curled up on the tile floor.
I was trying to be a good and patient parent, but at a certain point had to remind him that the car was running with Mina inside, who was very anxious to get her shot. This helped him recommit to the cause.
When we got downstairs, however, we found Nora lying on the living room floor, one pink sandal on and the other tossed to the side. Her face was locked in an expression of utter despair and when I asked her what was wrong she explained, in between deep sighs, that she could not get her shoes on and no one would help her and she couldn't stay home alone if we left her and it was never going to get better.
I looked out at the car. It was still running, windows cracked and Mina did not appear to be dead inside or prepared to put it in gear and get the hell away from our family, forever and ever, which, honestly, I'm surprised she hasn't done yet.
What I wanted to do was tell Nora that if she couldn't get her shoes on, we would leave her there, on the floor, in her misery, and then start walking out the door as though about to do just that.
The thing about using threats as a parenting technique, however, is - no, not that it's mean, is "it's too mean" what what you thought I was going to say? - that it doesn't work. Unless you are fully prepared to follow through with the threat, and obviously, I couldn't leave Nora home alone, although she is going to be a great and very strict babysitter someday.
So, despite the fact that I was entering parental territory best described as "fully losing it, holy shit," I paused, took a breath, and said, "Listen, Nora. You're five. Gabe's only three and I've got another baby in my belly. Since you're the oldest, I need you to do things like this by yourself, and when you can't, you can ask me for help. But ask me in the right way."
She acquiesced. "Please can you help me put on my sandals," she said, pushing away the adopted whine and forcing her voice into a semblance of normalcy. I did, and we made it into the car a full two minutes before we were scheduled to arrive at the vet appointment, which went fine, except for the part where I informed the kids, when they asked, that Mina had already gotten her shot; they'd been so busy playing that they missed it. I was able to distract them from a world regret by pulling some medical literature I'd recently received from my own doctor out of my bag, along with a few crayons that just happened to be in there and letting them draw.
I'm telling this story because life can be like this a lot of the time when you have kids. Excruciatingly tedious. Physically demanding. Kind of disgusting. There are a million essays on the topic out there, lamenting the difficulties of modern parenthood while encouraging moms and dads to, nonetheless, appreciate these moments before they fade away.
I don't love the sentiment, if you want to know the truth. I mean, I'm not sure I'll savor those precious moments where Nora wouldn't put her shoes on, while moaning low and relentlessly, like some kind of world weary refugee.
What I do think, however, is that life with little kids can be a lot of fun, and fulfilling for everyone involved, at least most of the time. But you have to make conscientious choices towards that end.
For me, that involves carefully planning my time. Like, not choosing not to try and do "just a little bit of work" while home with both kids, when what will happen in reality is I'll get down to the task at hand right as Gabe decides to try and lethally maim his sister with a wooden sword. Hence #8.
It also involves doing things that both me and the kids like, not just one or the other. I've never been the type of parent to regularly get down on the floor and play with my children - it's just not in me - but I love to watch them play while digging my feet in the warm sand and listening to the waves roll in. Hence, #5.
I almost skipped writing summer goals, like I did last year. After all, I've got a baby on the way and am going to be hindered by my pregnancy somewhat this season, then by a newborn.
I think that's even more reason to make a list, though. To keep me from holing up in the air-conditioned heaven of our bedroom and watching TV shows on the iPad with a pint of ice cream.
Although, don't get me wrong. I'm going to be doing that.
Those of you who know me well have full permission to roll your eyes at #1. I realize at this point action speaks louder than words, and that my words on this subject have been nothing but false promises.
Seriously though, guys. This is the summer I do it.
As of this week I'm in the third trimester of pregnancy, and, to be more specific, the third trimester of the last pregnancy I will ever experience, because any further pregnancies would interfere big time with the kid-free trip to South America J and I have been planning for about five years. The trip that keeps getting pushed back.
I've reached the magical stage where you go from feeling really great to feeling like, "Holy hell, I couldn't possibly get any more pregnant than this, could I?" But, the thing is, you've got roughly three months to go. Three MONTHS!
To be fair, I've been feeling good this time around, better than I did during the previous two pregnancies. I think a big part of that might be the fact that there isn't time to dwell on any annoying symptoms. With two children already, our life is too busy for that. It's not like when I was pregnant with Nora, and every spare moment not dedicated to work, or sleep, or eating ice cream sundaes could be utilized for thoroughly analyzing the full scale attack on my body.
In all seriousness, I like being pregnant for the most part. But I'm also, you know, glad it's a temporary situation.
I was scrolling through pictures on my phone today, and found one I sent my parents a few months ago, at 16 weeks.
I mean, I'm looking at this now, and I'm not even sure this legally qualifies as pregnant.
After, I didn't take any pictures of myself for awhile, at least not the kind pointing out my increasing size. I've never been a big fan of photo-documenting the process, but this time, the last time, I'm a little more eager to do so.
I had Nora, who has turned into a very enthusiastic photographer lately, take this picture outside our house a couple weeks ago, after I'd come home from my sister-in-law's bridal shower. My dad said it looked like some sort of commentary on American domestic life. Nora's good. Here I'm about 26 weeks.
That's a cupcake in the pink box on the stairs - a favor from the shower - and it's downright amazing that it came home intact considering I had it on the passenger seat next to me in the car for like 15 minutes. Willpower. Also, I'd eaten one and a half while I was there.
Then, today, at a little over 28 weeks, I don't know, it's just suddenly like, oh, ok! There's an enormous baby in there. And it's very difficult to shave my legs. Or walk up the stairs sometimes.
Also, correct, we need to make the bed.
From here on out there's no hiding my current condition. It's right in people's faces, sometimes literally. Like, the other day, I ran by the store on my way home to pick up a pound of coffee beans. Just a most certainly pregnant woman picking up coffee beans and nothing else. The woman ringing me up said, "I hope this isn't for you!" She was laughing, so I'm not sure how serious she was, but the implication was clear: You're so totally pregnant and pregnant people don't drink coffee, right?
I explained it by stating, "Oh, this is my third," and then realizing that didn't exactly answer the question, said, "Can't get through the day without it!" Then further clarified, in case she didn't get the point that I absolutely still drink coffee in the morning, lest I die. How else could you possibly get this body out of bed? "Yeah. It's for me."
I know I've told you guys about the cat before, and I don't want to bore you with it again, but I've been thinking about it lately. The cat we owned back in North Carolina, who was a wonderful animal despite the fact that cats aren't my favorite, and died of cancer after we'd had him for a few years, a really sad day for me.
That's not the story I'm referring to, though.
What I'm talking about is the period when J and I were renting this lovely, spacious home in Carrboro, NC from the owner, who very kindly gave us a low monthly price, with the understanding that we'd take good care of it while we lived there. This was incredibly generous of her seeing that we were in our mid-twenties, and we did honor the deal, except for a couple of incredibly awesome parties. Just a couple.
Oh, and then, you know, the cat. Which we didn't mention to our landlord (whose name was Debbie Gibson, by the way, DEBBIE GIBSON), because we really wanted to live there and she'd already agreed to rent to us with two dogs. Our reasoning was, "Ok. She's accepted the two dogs. We CANNOT add a cat to the deal."
So, a year or two later, when she decided to sell the house and would bring potential buyers over to see the place, what we would do is put our cat, Teddy, in his carrier, and drive around the neighborhood with him for awhile until we were certain they'd left.
If you're getting what I'm saying here, what we'd do is, we'd rush home, put our elderly cat in a carrier, and then drive around the neighborhood with him while our landlord, Debbie Gibson, showed her home to a potential buyer. This is what we did instead of tell her we had a cat.
Like I said, I know I've probably mentioned this situation before, but I've been thinking about it again, because I think it says a lot about J and I. We sometimes make life a little difficult for ourselves, but it usually yields a good story.
As many of you know, we're expecting baby number three, a statement that I feel needs a series of exclamation points (!!!) and the added explanation: "Yes, I know we're crazy." The truth is, though, I think we were always going to have three kids and I feel very serene about the whole thing, like we're fulfilling a very exciting, and fated, life plan.
It's true that there's a lot up in the air. We don't know where J's job prospects are going to take us next, or when, although I've decided that the days immediately surrounding my due date in August are probably off limits. We've been thinking about the steps we need to take in advance of putting our house on the market while simultaneously trying to make plans for this summer. It's a transitory, strange time, and that was all I thought about for awhile. It stressed me out, this temporary existence; the thought that our life in New Haven could, on one hand, span another year or two. Or, on the other, a couple of months.
Then the stress broke. I think it has to when you're in limbo. J finally heard about a couple of jobs, allowing us to let go of several possibilities and open the door to a few others, I started making plans for the next school year and decided we had to simply move on. Including having another baby if we wanted! And then, before we'd had time to really digest that very important thought, oh my god, we were having another baby.
We aren't finding out the sex this time, but I DO know that this baby needs me to eat a lot of baked goods.
Getting pregnant helped divert attention away from the stress of figuring out what we'd do once J is done with his post-doc. It put things in perspective in a really good way.
Recent months have been distracting in other, more annoying ways, as well. Nonetheless, I've had a very good time getting worked up about these problems. There was the fact that Gabriel didn't get into the Pre-K class at Nora's public magnet school next year, even though he should have had an extremely good chance, given that his application included a "sibling preference."
Getting the news, investigating various discrepancies in my application, and hearing from other parents who didn't get in - but probably should have - has ignited in me a rather intense attitude towards the New Haven Public School system. Every day, for about 20 minutes, I am full prepared to go down the Superintendent's Office and sit in protest until someone will see me and address these injustices.
In reality, I've written a number of emails and cursed a lot and am thinking about next steps.
Then, there is the fact that Nora has cavities. This is a smaller, yet still worrisome issue, that has taken up more of my mental capacity than I ever dreamed something like this would when I was young and childless woman who thought I'd be using my education and energy to "do important world-changing work" or "follow my dreams" when I was older.
It turns out that actually, when you become a parent, you have to think about things like cavities. And how you're going to convince your son it's not a great idea to take his diapers off by himself particularly when there's, you know, poop.
Nora's dentist told us that she has one big cavity, and several smaller ones, and very strongly recommended she get the dental work done under general anesthesia at the hospital, which is apparently a thing they do now, and prompted many questions from me, such as: How did this happen? and, What?! and, Does that seems kind of crazy, guys? and, Won't these baby teeth just fall out anyway?
I learned, making me feel a teensy bit better, that, yes, this does happen to children, even under dental care, and when you've been taking good care of their teeth, including secretly eating a lot of their Halloween and Easter candy so they don't have to eat it all.
And that even though Nora's behavior at the dentist has been very good so far, it's not uncommon for dentists to recommend this route when there is a decent amount of work to be done, even though it seems, to me, a pretty aggressive sedation plan for cavities.
The argument is that it helps the child maintain a positive relationship with the dentist. That's not a good enough reason for me, so I'm sticking with my gut feeling, and am going to ask that they attempt this work in the office first, even if they don't like me for making this decision.
Now, I wouldn't say that Nora is the most stoic child in the face of pain or other distress; last night I was taking out her ponytail holders and she started lashing and moaning because I was, apparently, ruining her entire life. And the other morning, when she was supposed to be getting dressed for the day, I found her weeping silently in bed. When I asked her what the matter was, she said there were no undies in the drawer.
One thing she is, however, is obedient. She spent the first few weeks of school in what I imagine was a decent amount of discomfort because she thought she might have heard the teacher say that you were only allowed to go to the bathroom once a day during a very specifically designated time, which is of course not the case, but Nora wouldn't dare break the rules. We might have to talk her out this unquestioned respect for authority someday, but for now, it's helpful, and I think will serve her well with the dentist. She's not going to question him or his actions.
Also, we will bribe her.
Then, finally, there is the distraction that's been most responsible for redirecting my focus from the crucial to the mundane over the past few months, and that's J's car, our beloved Prius, which was totaled when someone hit it while it was parked outside his lab one day. She hit it, um, pretty hard, but at least had the decency to stay put and try and explain herself.
Sadly, the car was unfixable, and we collected a respectable check from our insurance agency. Not, of course, enough to buy a new car - if only the world worked that way - but enough to put a good amount down on one.
We didn't immediately go out and get another car, though. We didn't do that, because I am talking about the couple that, instead of tell their landlord they had a cat, drove the cat around the neighborhood every time the landlord came over.
I've always wished we could exist with just one car between us. We did for a long time in Chapel Hill. But where we live now it's really not feasible. J needs to drive to work, the kids each need to be driven to different schools and when I have freelance work, it generally requires a lot of driving around to interview subjects or cover a story. The New Haven bus is alright, but often not on time, so J would find himself heading out to catch it, and getting into work - a couple miles drive away - about 40 minutes later.
The other minor detail is that, despite the fact that he can do it, J generally refuses to drive my car because it's stick shift. He proudly admits this, and rejoices in explaining to me why manual cars can and should be obsolete.
So, for a good month, we were sharing my car, and by "sharing" I mean that I was driving everyone around everywhere all the time. There were, if you can believe it, parts of this I really liked, including us all getting in the car to go to work and school in the morning. J and I would talk schedules and other boring domestic details that always seem too mind-numbing for a lazy Saturday morning and too tiring for weekday evenings after the children are in bed, but are a perfect conversation topic for the 8 o'clock commute.
And the kids, especially Nora, seemed to love the togetherness of it all. "We're all going in the same car?!" she'd ask.
But there were parts of the one-car thing that I didn't like, too, like, well, pretty much everything besides driving in together in the morning.
So after a few weeks of trying it out, we'd declared our one-car experiment over and J made an appointment to go look at a Prius at a Toyota dealership willing to give him a good deal.
Our new car is dark blue and shiny and I think life is getting back to normal. For now.
While we were at the dealership, the kids, who thought the place was the most magical playscape they'd ever encountered, caught me peeking inside the showroom Toyota Highlander, and asked if they could get in. I let them because by that point we'd been there a long time and they were beginning to lose it. An enclosed space? With doors? Yes, kids, get in.
They were obsessed. The beautiful cream-colored seats. The third row seating, perfect for a family with three children. The DVD player. The myriad cupholders! Nora pointed them out to me multiple times.
A car like that would be so fun, I told them. And they wholeheartedly agreed. But, I thought to myself, we're not ready. Not yet. First we'll squeeze you all into the back of my Outback, close as can be, with two dogs in the back on road trips, one with a penchant for sneaking up on unassuming kids and stealing snacks right out their hands.
We'll go that route for as long as possible, is my guess, until one day, when I can't take it anymore. Maybe I'll pinch my finger rearranging a carseat or one kid will maim another to a degree that can't be ignored, and it will be the last straw.
Then, perhaps, we'll get a new car.
I'll think, as I so often do, that we probably could have avoided this insanity. But the good stories, they're always worth the trade off.
A few months ago the inevitable happened and J visited Pinterest and opened an account. Not to share recipes with his friends, he'd like me to point out, I'm sure (although I think what he'd like even more than that is for me not to write this post), but to discover cool ideas and projects, which, from my passing observations of Pinterest, seems like a great way to use the site.
Like, Pinterest might show you how to turn the wine corks you've been storing in a container in a basement into miniature planters for succulents and other tiny plants. As J has a collection of wine corks he's been saving up for years in order to "do something with them someday" (NO COMMENT) this particular link was a useful find.
J is much more into "projects" than I am, a term he - and now Nora - seem to use to define doing semi-crafty things with stuff you find around the house. My response to the proposition of commencing a "project" is to run for it, super fast, but Nora's gotten really into cutting pictures out of magazines and making collages, and I do like to watch her work, safe on the sidelines. She's dropped roughly 400 glue sticks from the table to the floor during her creative endeavors, resulting in them rolling under the dining room hutch where they dry up never to be used again, but I think it's worth it.
And in terms of helpful life-hacks and easy and inventive home projects, J gets really motivated, too. And it's great to see him get motivated and to think about how his inherent creativity will enhance our lives, and how I will be involved in these endeavors in no way whatsoever.
Which I'm not sure he totally gets. Because this morning, when I mentioned that I was feeling a little lackluster, J immediately responded with the confident suggestion, "You just need to find some inspiration on Pinterest."
February was a frigid, interminable and, like, pretty awful month if you want to know the truth. I mean, yes, I love my family and my life in general, but I could have wiped February clean off the calendar this year with few regrets.
One of the highlights, however, was our annual President's Day get together with what was once made up of college friends, and now has morphed into a group that's harder to define, except to say that we all have a lot of fun together.
We went to Nashville this year, a city I've never visited and absolutely loved...the music, the heart-disease-inducing food (which included for me a hamburger topped with pimento cheese, jalapeño bacon and onion rings) and the people. The people! I miss you, southern people! We hired a babysitting service one night so the adults could go out, and the entire experience was so easy and pleasant compared to interactions I often have up north, where people are sometimes defensive and irritated from the get go, probably because it is so COLD, that I was nearly convinced to move there. That's what this winter has done to me. I think seriously about things like moving to Nashville because it's really easy to hire a babysitter there, compared to Connecticut, where it's been icy for four solid months.
Anyway, that night the grown ups headed to Broadway, the city's most happening street, and hit up a honky tonk bar, where an absolutely amazing band was playing while the audience drank PBRs and swayed to the music. Everyone was having such a good time.
It was one of those places where the experience you imagine yourself having prior to arriving ends up being exactly what it's like, one of those nights that imprints itself on your mind and reminds you what an incredibly diverse and interesting country this is.
Amplifying that takeaway was the fact that we drove to Nashville, and go to see many more miles of the U.S.A. over the long weekend than we'd originally anticipated. We drove there from New Haven, because, after waiting way, way too long to book flights - a bad habit of ours - we realized that flying the family there would cost thousands of dollars and we said, "You know what? Let's turn this into a fun road trip!"
And it was a fun road trip, which included stopping to see friends and family and teaching our kids some of the central activities required to make long rides fun, like browsing the many brochures in rest stops and playing "I spy," which quickly turned into a variant of "I spy" that seemed to be called "I see something..." which is like the former, but with no guessing. You see something, you say it.
Although we took plenty of extra days to turn this into an actual road trip, rather than just a frenzied car ride, it was still a lot of distance traveled in just a few days, something that was very clear to our astute Nora, who insisted at one point that she and Gabriel pretend they were airplanes, going very fast to various locations she'd announce over her pretend loudspeaker, like Florida and California. Then, after awhile, she informed me, with a serious look, "I think for our next trip, we should fly."